Had, he corrects himself. Had a sister and mother. What happened to them? Why didn’t Dad ever mention them? It had only been the two of them for so long that he never thought to ask about any other family. He just assumed it had been him and Dad from the beginning. Yet here he is holding evidence to the contrary, and the visual reminder seems to open a door in his mind—a door that’s been closed for so long that he thought he’d lost the key. He doesn’t remember his sister, but he suddenly has a flood of hazy images of being held close to his mother’s pale skin—of hearing her singing, her voice quiet and reserved as if she were hiding the sounds from prying ears.
The Tainted, he thinks. She was trying to keep me quiet because the Tainted were near. He closes his eyes, suddenly afraid that he might have caused his mother’s death by crying. No, he thinks. That doesn’t feel right. He looks back down at the photograph. No, that memory, whatever happened, did not end in her death. He doesn’t know how he knows this, but he knows it’s true because there are other fleeting memories there as well—memories where he is older, a toddler—and his mother is still there. His sister is there too, as well as others he does not recognize because in his mind, their faces are shadowed blurs.
He places the family portrait back into the box and picks up another one. Nobody from the first picture is represented here but there is enough resemblance in these faces that Chris can’t imagine they are not more family members. In fact, two of them resemble his dad so closely that he can believe they are brothers.
He absently flips the photograph over. On the reverse surface is black scribbling. All the photographs have similar markings on back. He has no idea what they mean but remembers his dad making similar markings in the sand or on pieces of wood inside the small hut.
“What do they mean?” Chris had asked, startling his dad.
“Right now, son…there are more important things to learn than writing…things like surviving.”
As always, no matter how much his curious young mind wanted to press the issue, he was unwilling—no…afraid to risk his father’s anger by pushing. Like so many times before, he let the matter drop. He picks up another photograph, and then another, and another—each one depicts the same group of people. This has to be my family, he thinks, moving one picture after the other from the ground and into the box. As he places the last picture into the box, he wonders for the first time just how much his dad kept from him.
What other secrets were you keeping? Dad?
Again, his dad has reverted to silence.
Chris closes the box and heads back to the hut. Inside, he places the box on a makeshift table and removes the first picture—the one of his dad, mom, sister, and the baby. Hanging from nails and pegs on the ceiling are a variety of baskets of varying sizes. Each one containing items he and his father collected over the years—balls of yarn, tape, soggy matches, nails and other fasteners… even tools like hammers, screwdrivers, and wrenches. They didn’t have much use for any of it, but his dad insisted on keeping everything they found. Even the walls, both inside and out, were covered with useless items from his father’s past.
He removes several baskets and places them on the floor to reveal the main support beam above. Flipping the photo over, he studies the black markings then holds them up to the support beam in the ceiling—the beam where he’d seen his dad carving similar markings into the rough wood. He studies the wood above, then compares it to the photograph. The third set of carvings matches one of the scribbled markings on the photograph.
The wooden beam has fifteen separate markings and he’s able to match four of them to the family portrait. In time, he matches all fifteen to other markings on the backs of the photographs. He crumples to the ground and draws his knees up to his chest. The markings must be names—the names of family members—his family. But why wouldn’t his dad tell him? Why didn’t he share his past with him and show him these photographs? Why carve the names on the beam (where Chris can see them every day) if they were going to remain secret?
“Who were you?” he asks the image of his father in the family portrait. Again, there’s no response.
* * *
The discovery of the red box and the photographs only deters his mind from his previous task—he knows there’s still food to gather so he lifts himself off the dirt floor, returns all the pictures to the red box and heads back out to check the traps and snares, and, if there’s nothing there, do some actual hunting with the bow.
The path leading from the hut is well worn. It snakes its way through the trees and cuts through some of the thickest vegetation on the little peninsula Chris calls home. Then, abruptly, the forest floor opens and there in front of him is a wide clearing and what his father named the Picket Fence—and along the fence are the six remaining Guardians.
Sharpened spikes between four and five feet tall make up the majority of the fence. Some of them (spaced about a foot apart) point outward, toward the main forest, away from Homestead. The fence has been here since Chris can remember—his dad built it to protect them from the Tainted. His dad also discovered how to use the Tainted as camouflage—to guard them against the dead. How he knew that, Chris doesn’t know. All Chris knows is that this fence has protected him for many years.
The only two female Guardians are to Chris’s left. Between the second female and the first male is the gate—the only way through the fence. As he approaches, all six Guardians begin to groan and turn their heads toward him. He asked his dad once how the things were able to see with such cloudy, jaundiced eyes.
I don’t think they can, his dad had said, then though better of it. Or if they do, it’s only vague images—shapes maybe—and movement attracts their attention.
Whether or not they can actually see is beside the point, however. Chris has seen them in action and their hearing and sense of smell is enough to draw their attention. Even now, as he approaches the fence, the Guardians continue to try to turn their heads in his direction. They grunt and sniff the air—each drawn breath rattles with globs of phlegm and brackish mucus that threaten to close their air passages.
He approaches the gate and pauses, scanning the forest ahead with wary eyes. To his left, the older of the two women snaps her teeth and thrashes her head back and forth in an attempt to reach him. The male to his right mirrors her movements. Thankfully, his dad removed their arms and legs, so they can’t reach out and grab.
Satisfied his immediate surroundings are clear of threats, Chris unlatches the gate and passes beyond the safety of Homestead and enters the wild. Ahead are three trails: one bears southwest, the middle stretches through the trees almost due west into deeper forest, and the last angles north west before turning due north to follow the river.
Chris takes the middle trail. He walks slowly, quietly, and carries his machete in his hand—always at the ready. The older the Tainted, the slower they move, but if you’re not always on the lookout, one can be on top of you before you can react.
Don’t ever take for granted you are alone, Chris. It’s his dad’s voice again, speaking to him as if the incident at the oak and finding the red box had never happened. Always be at the ready—if you see one, strike first and strike fast.
Chris shakes his head in an attempt to clear away the voice—just once, just for one day, he’d like to sample true quiet. However, his dad just won’t go away—and he’s been dead for…
Chris stops on the trail and has to think. How long has he been dead, he thinks, trying to remember how many winters have passed since—since…
He shakes his head again—it’s an image he wouldn’t mind forgetting. Seeing his father dying and knowing what he’d have to do once he breathed his last. The memory is too vivid: the rattling cough; the sunken eyes with the first tinges of yellow encircling the ice blue irises; his father’s gasping words as, even unto the end, he continued to teach his son.
Then there was the knife and his father’s instructions.
* * *
“Just behind
the ear, Chris. Can you feel where the skull ends?”
Chris’s head nods almost imperceptibly, his fingers raking through his father’s damp hair.
“Good,” his dad says, and a fit of coughing shudders through him. When it passes, he repeats, “Good… that’s where you insert the knife.” He reaches out and closes skeletal fingers around Chris’s hand—the hand holding the knife. “Listen, Chris. It’s not going to be easy…”
Another barrage of coughing and then several breathless seconds where Chris is afraid his dad has finally breathed his last. Not yet, though. His dad sucks in another gulp of air and finishes: “You’re going to have to push it in with all your strength. If you don’t pierce the brain, I might come back… as one of them.”
Chris doesn’t need clarification as to whom his dad is referring. Tears push from his eyes—he can’t help but continue denying the inevitable. He stammers, “But… but… you might… get better.”
“Chris…”
“No! It’s not going to happen!”
He wants to hit him—to lash out at his father for leaving him alone even though he’s not yet gone. Instead, he throws the knife to the ground and retreats to the opposite side of the small hut. His dad doesn’t attempt to call out to him, but leaves the boy to fume on his own. The anger will dissipate in time.
The anger didn’t dissipate, however. Chris remembers rising from his place on the floor and taking his place at his father’s side. His tears were dry. Outside, only a few ribbons of light from the setting sun made it through the vertical limbs and posts that made up the hut’s wall. As the shadows moved, the contrast of light and dark slithered across his father’s face—giving the illusion of a skull.
Chris picked up the knife and stared down at his father.
Chapter Three
An unnatural noise breaks Chris’s reverie. He crouches low to the ground and listens intently to the forest around him. So far, the noise, what sounded like a tiny scream, has not repeated itself, so he can’t get a true fix on it—although his first impression is that it came from ahead.
That ever-present voice of his father lectures: If you’re not sure—stay low, listen, and wait. If there’s only one, you can take it…otherwise, look for the best exit away from them and run back to the Guardians.
Chris grips the machete with white-knuckled fury—not in fear of the unknown, but of what remains hidden in the forest. In spite of his father’s instructions (and knowing the man couldn’t really be speaking to him from the dead), he whispers, “Why won’t you just die already?”
He hears the noise again. It’s a little farther up the trail from where he crouches. He rises but remains half-crouched, scanning his immediate surroundings before pressing on down the trail. He has a sinking feeling he knows exactly what the noise is—and what’s causing it.
He creeps forward, stepping lightly along the beaten trail.
The trail bends, sweeping around a large pine where it disappears into heavier underbrush. Beyond the tree, about ten yards north of the trail, is a clearing with one of the snares he checks daily for small animals such as rabbits and squirrels. These snares supply the majority of Chris’s food and he’s afraid of what he’s going to find up ahead.
Pushing through the underbrush as silently as possible, he peers into the clearing at the figure of a man crouched by the ruined snare. It’s not really a man, however—not any longer. Oily hair lays plastered to the deeply lined gray skin in thick, clumped strings. Its shaded, cloudy eyes are intent on the mass of fur clutched in its bony fingers. Its mouth descends with a grunt and the few splintered teeth remaining in its gums tears at the rabbit's flesh, staining the cracked lips with fresh blood.
One of the rabbit’s legs thumps spastically against the Tainted’s face and its sharp little nails rip at the thing’s flesh. The Tainted's mouth rips another chuck of flesh from the little body and the dead corpse groans as if in blissful ecstasy at the taste of the bloody, raw flesh. The rabbit’s leg thumps a final time and is still. The thing keeps eating—as long as the blood is fresh, it will continue to eat.
Before that awful night with his dad and the knife, checking the traps and snares was part of their daily ritual—a habit Chris still maintains. Early on, they learned a hard lesson where the traps and snares were concerned: heading out one morning, they discovered their first four snares had been compromised. All that remained was a smattering of blood on the leaves and tufts of hair held together by coagulated blood. They found the walking corpse at the fifth trap—its mouth and chin a bloody mess of fur and gristle.
Their mistake was putting the snares and traps too close together. That night had been a bountiful harvest of food, but as the Tainted stumbled upon the first trapped animal, the struggles of the next animal drew it to the second trap, then the third. At each stop, the thing paused just long enough to capture the terrified animal and tear into its flesh.
From that moment on, they never put their traps too close together. To this day, Chris continues the practice, but seeing this thing here and now, he can’t help but remember that earlier mistake and wonder if the thing has gotten to any of the other traps. He doubts it, but is still worried that he won’t have any meat tonight. He has some food stored away for the coming winter, but he needs a lot more. He’d hate to have to tap into those stores tonight and possibly tomorrow.
Don’t worry just yet, says his father. You have a dozen more traps to check.
Yeah, Chris thinks in reply. And how many of those would have actually caught something?
His dad’s voice falls silent.
Well that’s par for the course, Chris thinks, still eyeing the rotting man eating the rabbit in the clearing. He has to suppress a sudden laugh. Par for the course—it’s a phrase his dad always used to say. Chris has no idea what it means, and even though his dad tried to explain its meaning (Something about a game called gorf….or gulf, maybe?) he still only vaguely grasps the concept.
Chris steps out from behind the tree and the dead man’s head snaps up. It breathes deeply, testing the air with a bubbly, wet inhalation. Its head turns toward him, but its eyes seem locked on something off to Chris’s left. Its head cocks left, then right—as if trying to reestablish where it has just seen movement.
Chris takes a step forward and raises the machete. Those hazy, yellow eyes turn toward him as it slowly rises to its feet. It’s slow compared to others Chris has seen before. It’s been around for a long time. Its clothes have long since rotted or torn away, leaving it almost naked. Flaking dirt covers much of the exposed gray skin and an oily black substance oozes in places where the skin is cut or torn. The thing’s left ear hangs loosely, attached to the side of the head by a thin strip of darkened flesh. Viscous liquid bubbles from the open ear cavity, drips to its shoulder and dries solid like candlewax.
Chris just stands and watches, weapon ready but making no move to take the thing out. As it lumbers forward, the rabbit’s remains slip from its fingers and fall to the ground, already forgotten by its one-track mind.
Kill it, whispers his dad, as if the rotting corpse can hear him. Panic rises within him, but it’s a disjointed feeling, an alien feeling he finds difficult to believe is coming from within himself.
Kill it now, his dad hisses. There’s definite unease there, something Chris has never heard in his father’s voice, either while he was living or after his death. He still stands there, making no move to defend or attack. His mind races to connect a couple of dots that he didn’t realize could be connected, a link between himself and his father that he’d always taken for granted. Death was unfamiliar to him. Does the body actually die or does everyone become like the rotting, mindless corpse coming toward him? Does the consciousness live on inside a loved one—much like his dad is now? Or is this disembodied voice a product of his own subconscious?
Chris knows one thing’s for sure, he’s tired of hearing his father’s voice; tired of asking empty questions; tired of the constant barrage of use
less advice—advice that’s already burned into his brain like a fire-brand into skin—a scar that will never heal and never go away.
Chris! The voice booms in his head, making him flinch.
“Shut up,” Chris says aloud but with a quiet firmness. Before him, spurred by the sound of his voice, the Tainted increases its shuffling pace, each footfall squishing against the ground like a wet sponge.
Again, his father’s terrified voice rises within him. The shuffling thing with wrinkly, papery skin draws closer. Chris can’t help but look at the thing with some degree of curiosity. It moves as if in slow motion. It’s obviously very old and has survived for many years. He’s seen other Tainted, freshly turned, and they move with amazing speed and agility. If this one had been new, Chris would have been fighting it off well before now—but as it stands, the thing’s only covered about half the distance.
However, inside his head, his father’s screeching voice continues to sound with alarm—as if the thing is right on top of his son and about to sink its poisoned teeth into his flesh.
Chris takes a step toward the creature and his dad’s voice rises to a completely new level, a sonic boom of pain that crashes into his brain like thunder. He winces at the pain but continues to step toward the walking corpse.
“Shut up,” he repeats. The words become a mantra until he’s standing right in front of the rotting thing. “I said, shut up!” he shouts, and kicks out with his foot, knocking the creature to the ground. Its brittle bones shatter at the impact from his boot, but even as it hits the ground, it immediately begins to push itself back to its feet.
Chris falls on it with blind fury, slashing at its paper-thin flesh repeatedly with the machete. With each downward stroke, he shouts, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
He hacks until his arm is weak and his voice is hoarse—he hacks until the Tainted one is no longer recognizable as once being human. Tears stream from Chris’s face, mixing with the dark fluids that rise through the air each time the blade slides from a body part.
Tainted Page 2
